The Fire (Hurricane Book 4)

by R. J. Prescott

  “In the bag,” he answered. “One million endorsement deal for one year. You need to do a couple of commercials, product placement in your next fight and you need to commit to wearing their brand for the duration of the deal. On top of the fee they’ll keep you and your family fully kitted out with their latest product line.”

  “Fuck,” Con muttered, which is pretty much what we were all thinking. I might give the guy shit on a regular basis, and I’d never tell him to his face, but Cormac O’Connell was the greatest heavy weight fighter of his generation. He was fast becoming a legend in the boxing community, and with endorsement deals like this on the table from a major global sports brand, it seemed like the rest of the world knew as well.

  “Heath, you did an amazing job. Danny’s going to be over the moon when he finds out,” Em said. I doubted that even a million quid would raise a smile from the old man, but I didn’t want to burst her bubble. Truth was that, smile or not, he’d be damn proud of Con and Earnshaw. Con had fought for every fucking penny of that money. He’d earned it. But Earnshaw had a gift as well. We might take the piss out of his snazzy suits and his American accent, but he was the most talented sports agent I’d ever known. When he’d joined Driscoll’s, he’d needed a calling. Something to go to the mattresses for. He needed a family, and Danny had given it to him.

  “So, when you say they’re kitting out the family with their new products and shit, you’re talking about us, right?” I asked. The guys all chuckled, but I was serious.

  “Yes Tom, I’m sure there’s going to be plenty of free shit in it for you,” Earnshaw assured me, with a grin.

  “We’ll let you try on the stuff they send over for the kids,” Con said, giving me his arsehole smirk. “You’re not far off the same size.”

  “O’Connell, leave him alone. Of course he’ll share any of the freebies with all the family,” Em said. I gave her a big grin, having got my way, and then waited for Little D to grab her attention, before I threw two fingers up at Con again.

  “Where is Danny anyway?” Liam asked, and Jack giggled with laughter. The little fucker always went nuts at the sound of Liam’s deep voice. At 6 foot 6 inches, the guy was taller than Con and built like a tank, but for all that, he was soft as shit with the kids. Liam held his big arms out, and chuckled as Jack launched himself into them.

  “He’s gone for lunch with Father Pat, which is why I asked you all to meet me here. His birthday is coming up and it’s a big one. I want to throw him a big party at the Community Centre where Con and I had our wedding reception.” Collectively, we all groaned, with Kieran chipping in a “hell no.”

  “Do you not remember how bad the last party you talked us into was, Sunshine?” Con asked her.

  “I do remember love, but this one will be better, I promise,” she replied.

  “Not unless you get Danny a personality transplant for his birthday,” Kieran mumbled.

  “Hey.” Em protested, “Danny loved his last party.”

  “Well he’s good at keeping his joy on the inside then, because he looked pissed off and scary as shit at the last one,” I added, just in case anyone was actually contemplating this ridiculous idea.

  Em didn’t say a word, but she slowly scanned the group, looking each of us dead in the eyes. Kier squirmed first, then Liam, and the boys slowly fell one by one. Each of em’ knowing they were going to cave and do as she asked. I stood my ground the longest, knowing I’d rather piss off Em than Danny.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I warned. “I’m not doing it. He’ll hate a party and you know it.” She kept staring at me, turning the impatient glare into puppy dog eyes. I held out a few moments longer before I started to twitch. Saying no to Sunshine was damn near impossible, especially when she only ever wanted things for other people, never for herself.

  “Goddamn it Con, tell your wife to cut it out with that Jedi mind shit,” I said, looking towards him for help.

  “Sorry mate. You’re on your own. My girl doesn’t ask for much, so if this is what she wants, this is what’s happening. If you think you can say no to her, you’re welcome to try,” he replied, looking amused that I was even attempting to fight her on this.

  “Fine!” I conceded, a few uncomfortable moments later. “But I hope you remember that I was the last voice of reason when Danny’s spitting nails over this thing.”

  “Thanks Tommy,” Em squealed, wrapping her free arm around me in a grateful hug and bringing me all too close to Con’s chubby, slobbering offspring.

  “God you smell good,” I said, making the guys laugh. It was like firing a starter pistol in the gym though, as Con launched himself towards me, a second after I’d fled. It occurred to me that I was possibly too old and mature to make the big guy come after me in defence of Em’s honour, but then he’d never be as quick as he was in the ring without the years of practice I’d given him chasing me. Fuck if I hadn’t single-handedly made the fucker Champion of the World.

  As I walked through the door of the station, my kit bag hanging over my shoulder, I reminded myself just what a lucky bastard I was. I’d been weeks away from completing my probationary period as a firefighter when I’d been in a serious accident that nearly killed me. Thanks to a recommendation from my senior officer, and the good graces of the powers that be, I was allowed to qualify if, and only if, I could pass a medical examination.

  My firefighter training had been spent moving from station to station around London, learning as much as I could from everyone I worked with, before moving on. It was my good fortune that my final, and permanent post, was at the newly built, state-of-the-art Plaistow Fire Station. With a drill yard for road traffic collision training, a breathing apparatus chamber and a four storey training tower, this place was the dog’s bollocks of stations. Unlike some of the old, draughty fire houses that were desperately in need of an upgrade, it was warm and comfortable and most importantly for me, it was within spitting distance of Canning Town. I could have been stationed anywhere in London, and instead I was on my own patch.

  “So, how’d the medical go?” Robbie Sledge, nicknamed “Hammer” for obvious reasons, opened the locker next to mine and pulled out a clean shirt.

  “Please! Passed with flying colours,” I replied, as though the result was a foregone conclusion. In truth, I’d been shitting bricks. I’d been back on active service for three months, but only on condition that I submitted to monthly check-ups. The last one before I was permanently signed off as fit, was the most nerve wracking. I’d felt fitter than ever with no reason to worry, but my confidence was shaken. Coming back from the accident had been a long, painful road, physically and mentally. I might not admit it to my crew, or my brothers, but it’d changed me. Resurrection came at a cost, and in a way, I was still paying the price.

  “Well, I’m glad you passed. We might have a chance at getting a decent breakfast now you’re back for good,” he replied, with a chuckle.

  “What, Sue not giving you any love while I was gone?” I asked.

  “Fuck no. She’s all smiles and fried breakfast when you’re around, but it was burnt toast and soggy cereal when you were laid up,” he replied.

  While we took turns cooking our own lunch and dinner, breakfast was provided by the lovely Sue, a retired school cook who worked a few hours on weekdays at the station to supplement her pension.

  “It’s not hard to get her on side you know. Just show her a little love now and then,” I suggested. It baffled me that my boys still hadn’t worked out that the secret to unlocking the happiness in a woman, in all women, was love. Love what they are, what they bring and what they do, and remind them constantly what they forget to love about themselves. It wasn’t fucking hard, yet most men acted like it was the secret to the universe.

  “You’d better haul arse if you want to make the morning briefing,” Wookie said, his head poking out from behind the door as he hollered to us. Zack Emery, or Wookie as he was best known, was six-foot two, stocky and the hairiest guy I’d ev
er met. He could literally shave one side of his face and by the time he finished the other side, stubble would’ve grown back. Dark hair covered his back and chest, and the fucker was proud of it. Said it looked manly. He’d started station life being called Chewbacca, but that mouthful had quickly been shortened to Wookie.

  Slamming the doors to our lockers shut, we followed him into the main office. Already sat waiting for us, was our Green Watch Crew Manager Fester, named for Uncle Fester after he started shaving his head, and our Watch Manager Samantha Whitney, affectionately known as Houston. She busted my balls enough that she gave Danny a run for his money, but she was a damn good manager and one of the best firefighters I’d ever met.

  “Well, if it isn’t Road Kill himself, back from the dead,” Fester said.

  “Seriously? Road Kill? That’s the best you could come up with?” I replied. In all the stations I’d worked at, I’d hardly met a firefighter who didn’t have a nickname. Some were based on their actual names, others on things they’d done, but in a profession where we literally laid our lives in each other’s hands, it was a form of camaraderie that bonded us together. Surprisingly enough, I hadn’t been landed with Paddy or Mick, despite being Irish, but if Road Kill was the name that stuck after my motorcycle accident, I’d be fucking pissed. The rest of the Watch ambled in, nine of us in total, each of them greeting me with a nod or fist bump.

  “Okay, settle down you lot. Tommy, it’s good to see you back,” Houston said, and immediately everyone went quiet and took a seat. When she laid down the law, you listened. Answer back, or give her lip in any way, and you’d find yourself mopping out the toilets or doing some shit that was just as bad. I’d cleaned enough toilets as a probie to learn when to keep my trap shut.

  “On the rider’s board for today, I’ll be Officer in Charge on the Ladder, Wookie’s driver, number three is Tommy on B.A., number four is Hammer as B.A. Team Leader and Echo will be the Entry Control Officer. Fester is Officer in Charge of the Pump, Dover is Driver, Number three on B.A. is Ronnie and Number four is Mase as B.A. Team Leader.” Houston read out the board, giving us our positions on the trucks. The water rescue tender ladder was the larger of the two appliances at the station, and the pump the smaller. It wasn’t a surprise to hear that I was with Houston for the day. The B.A. assigned to me meant breathing apparatus. With the amount of training I did at Driscoll’s, my lung capacity was probably the best on station. It was the reason I was usually given the third seat on the truck, meaning I’d be first into any fire.

  Between them, Houston and Fester ran through the diary and our routines for the day. They’d just finished, when the all too familiar sound of the bells going down rang through the station.

  “ONE FIVE PAPA ONE. ONE FIVE PAPA FOUR. FIRE. PERSONS REPORTED,” spoke the robotic, automated voice through the tannoy system. There was that brief fraction of a second. That suspended pause in time where each of us processed the threat level based on those two words, before we exploded into action and raced for the trucks.

  And I felt it.

  For the first time in months, I felt it.

  That burst of adrenaline. That explosion of energy. That yearning for danger that reminded me that this is what I was born to do.

  Chapter Two

  EVELYN

  Lord, help me to remember that nothing is going to happen to me today that You and I can’t handle together.

  I do not know what the future holds, or where my place in it will be.

  But even when I cannot feel you, I know you are there.

  Thank you for your strength and guidance.

  Amen

  I made the sign of the cross and moved from my knees to sit on the pew behind me. At this hour of the morning, and with no early mass today, St Paul’s was quiet and blissfully peaceful. The winter sun shone through the stained glass windows in a burst of colour, illuminating the beautiful dance of dust motes above the ancient oak benches. The tattered old hymn books and embroidered kneeling cushions were saturated with history and the musty scent that would always make the church feel like a haven for me. It was the only place that truly gave me peace, however briefly.

  “Evelyn, I thought that was you. What a lovely surprise. I thought you worked on a Thursday,” Father Pat said, coming to stand beside me.

  “Hello Father. I do, but the library doesn’t open until this afternoon, so I thought I’d pop in on my way to the care home,” I replied, looking down at my hands. Father Pat was such a wonderful, patient and caring man, and I couldn’t help feeling slightly ashamed that he had caught me here. Knowing how regularly Mam attended church, I assumed she must have confessed her condition to Father Pat. How then could he not judge me for being there, instead of by her side? The truth was I couldn’t have taken one more minute in that house with her. It was a day that I needed God’s strength more than ever.

  “Child, you do too much. When was the last time you took a day to let your hair down? Put on your dancing shoes and do the floss, or whatever it is you young people do to what passes for music these days?” he asked.

  I couldn’t help but giggle as he attempted to dance the floss while talking to me. He explained once that Tommy Riordon had set him up with a laptop that had, as he described it, put him touch with the pulse of his congregation. The things he discovered on the internet frequently had me giggling through his Sunday sermons. I would say it was the best thing that ever happened to him, if only Tommy hadn’t been the one to orchestrate it.

  I asked God for forgiveness, as a flair of rage rose up inside me that only Thomas Riordon could ignite. He was the only person I’d ever met who could make me lose control of my temper and my knickers at the same time.

  “Don’t worry about me Father, I have plenty of time with my books to relax. Besides, I enjoy being at the care home. It feels good to share my love of reading with others,” I assured him.

  He sighed deeply and took a seat next to me.

  “Evelyn, it’s my belief that God gave man the ability to record the written word for the same reason that he gave birds wings, so we would know what it feels like to fly. To sweep and soar in our imaginations to places and adventures we couldn’t otherwise reach. But sometimes you need to learn when to stop reading so you can begin your own adventure. Never become so lost in the magic of books that you forget that your story is the most important one of all. God’s love is a tangible thing. You just need to find the person who allows you to feel it, and as much as you might wish for it, you won’t find them inside the pages of a book,” he said.

  My cheeks reddened at his words. Father Pat confused me in so many ways. I spent my life being preached at by my mother about the evils of lusting after boys and wasting God’s precious time when I should be trying to do His work. And here was Father Pat, basically telling me to go out and live a little.

  “It’s confusing Father. Knowing what to do for the best. Being the sort of person God would want me to be,” I admitted.

  “The only person God wants you to be, is yourself. You just need to work out who that is. You’re a good girl, with a strong, kind heart. Learn to trust in yourself, to stand up for what you want and what you believe in. Listen to that heart, and I promise you won’t go far wrong,” he said.

  “Thank you for the advice Father. I’ll try,” I assured him.

  “You do that,” he said, and patting the back of my hand, stood up, his old bones creaking as he did.

  “And when you say your prayers this evening, don’t forget to say one for me. I’m pretty sure I threw my hip out flossing like the kids.”

  I eyed the telephone at the library with trepidation, biting my lip as I imagined how badly this conversation might go. It was ridiculous really. I knew that it was. To be twenty-two years old and still afraid of my Mam’s wrath. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, I picked up the receiver and dialled.

  “Hello, Mrs Danaher speaking,” said the gentle, articulated voice at the other end of the line.

  “Hi Mam
, it’s Evelyn. I’m at the library and one of the girls has called in sick. My supervisor has asked if I’ll stay on to cover her shift, so I’m afraid I’ll be late home tonight,” I said, blurting out the information as quickly as I could.

  “I see. And when exactly is this shift supposed to end?” Mam replied sharply, her ire evident from her tone of voice.

  “Nine o’clock,” I replied, then held my breath.

  “That’s ridiculous! The library closes at eight, and who will cook dinner? Am I expected to work all day and then cook and take care of the entire family?” she protested.

  It was true that the library closed at eight, but in for a penny, in for a pound. If I was going to get yelled at, then maybe I could have an extra hour to myself. Just to find somewhere to grab a hot drink and read my book quietly for a little while. Anything to delay going home. And yes, either Mam or Da would have to feed themselves, but it happened so rarely, I couldn’t remember the last time I hadn’t cooked for them.

  Da hadn’t worked since I was a child, when an industrial accident had severed two of his toes. He was given a lump sum settlement and declared himself retired. Every month he collected a disability cheque from the Government and gave Mam her cut towards housekeeping. The rest he shared with the working men’s club. Every morning he left shortly after breakfast and was home in time for dinner, after which he usually fell asleep in front of the television. To my knowledge, he never attempted to work again, just as he never attempted any of the cooking or cleaning either.

  Mam on the other hand worked three hours every afternoon at the bingo hall, from Monday to Friday. I gave her the majority of my wages and although my brother Joe didn’t live with us, he still gave her money every month as well. I hoped that between our contributions and Dad’s housekeeping she’d be able to give up work altogether, but she insisted that working was good for the soul. I couldn’t believe that was true because I’d never met anyone as unhappy as my mother. But then she had every reason to feel that way.